I, Altair
by Xazz
Summary: -DISCONTINUED- Altair loses his memory and has no idea who or what he is, meanwhile two powerful factions are at each other's throat over who's side he'll fight on.
1. The Life We Lead

"_It doesn't have to end this way," he said looking up from the end of the blade against his throat. Amber eyes, cold as starlight, looked back and through him, not seeing him because he was insignificant._

"_It was all there was," came the graveled reply, emotionless as they day they'd met._

_He sighed and tipped his head back, "Do it then," he prompted, exposing his throat without fear. He swallowed as he said, "I just wish it had turned out differently."_

_There was stillness and for a second he was sure his ears were playing tricks on him because he thought he heard, "As do I," before the blade flashed._

—

The sand and sun stung Egil's eyes as he stood at the edge of camp, next to him the Grand Master, his voice harsh as he talked with the German mercenaries who'd been lazing about and not getting anything done. King Richard didn't like his men to dawdle or to be lazy and out of shape. He looked away boredly as Robert talked thrumming his fingers on the pommel of his sword carelessly and looked around the taller man's back at his stewart who was standing perfectly still on his other side.

They must have seen him looking because they turned and though their face was covered by a full helm their posture was annoyed, he should be taking this more serious. Egil only smirked and he could imagine them scowling at him for his lax nature. If it was anyone else he wouldn't have gotten away with it, but he was Robert's right hand, and no one could tell him to do anything. Not that people didn't try of course since his station wasn't very well known and except for those closest to Robert didn't even know of his existence. It would have been frowned upon after all if one of Robert's confidants was known to look like one of these Godless heretics. The stewart gave a slight jerk of their head in a pointed way and looked back forward. Egil just continued to smirk and face forward as well listening to the Master berate the lazy mercenaries.

The Germans didn't appreciate the Templar Master speaking to them in such a tone. They'd been hired by a noble under King Richard and as far as they were concerned didn't have to follow his orders. He cocked his head back as the argument grew heated and watched the sky, though there was very little to see out here even with Acre so close. No smoke, no clouds, no sea birds, nothing like that here though, just a lone buzzard that sailed across the sky in a lethargic manner as if he too was suffering under the oppressive heat.

He looked back at the men and saw more Germans had started to appear, drawn by the unrest and the noise and Egil took a comfortable stance, hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword in a non threatening manner. Across the tall Frenchman he felt more than saw his stewart doing the same though they were much more obvious about it and he sighed, they didn't know the first thing about subtlety at all and would one day get killed for it he was sure. Then one the Germans drew their sword on his Master.

In a breath he'd drawn his own and before they really had a chance to swing he'd already stepped to the side and slapped it out of his hand. He tutted at them in a disappointed way and waved a finger at them like a scolding mother. The display by the German just pissed Robert off though and he yelled at them in German, it went right over Egil's head since he didn't know that language. He stayed where he was and Robert was easily able to yell over his head because of their height difference and he could only imagine what he was saying because the Germans quickly looked scared shitless.

Seeing there was no more danger Egil shoved his sword back into his scabbard though kept his hand on it to remind them it didn't take much time for him to pull it out and run them through. The Germans, now a smaller number and humbled were talking in a what sounded like reassuring voice to Robert who looked on the edge of being placated. Finally whatever they said sounded good enough to the Templar Master because his next words were in French, "You two, we're leaving," and then he turned on a heel and marched away. The stewart followed closely at his heels like the good dog they were but Egil held for a moment and watched the Germans disperse before following as well. Shame, he'd been hoping for a fight.

The walk back to the main camp around Acre wasn't far, only about half a mile or so and over flat ground it only took them a few minutes. The sun beat down on them as they walked and eventually rejoined the rest of the army where Egil finally pulled on his full helm to hide his face and dark skin. There was just an open slit to see out of and very quickly he was sweating. It was the only real metal plate he wore for that very reason and instead preferred chain and leather since it was lighter and allowed him to be more agile.

They walked right up to Richard's tent where he and the stewart stopped though Robert swept in with barely an announcement. "I don't know how you wear this stupid thing all the time," Egil informed them and reached his hand under his helmet to try and wipe some of the sweat on his face.

"Better than revealing who I am," they said and he smirked at their too deep voice. "Robert would be angry if we were found," they crossed their arms over their chest as they waited.

"I would rather wear an open face helm like the soldiers," he grumbled, voice muffled even to his own ears thanks to the metal. "It would not nearly be as hot. No wonder these Saracens don't have this sort of armor, they would kill themselves on the march!" and he snickered. The stewart was not amused and he saw them roll their head and shoulders in an annoyed way since he couldn't see those pretty hazel eyes of theirs.

"You talk to much," they informed him.

"Only because you're such a good listener," he told them and before they could go on Robert emerged half way from the tent. "Sir," he said, now all business.

"Return to our camp, I'll be along shortly," he ordered.

"Yes sir," they said at the same time and with bows left him. The Templar camp was within the regular army though practically against the walls of Acre, the tents easy to distinguish from the regular army for the red crosses painted on the entrance flaps.

Egil sighed with relief when he was finally inside the largest tent where Robert lived and threw off his helmet. "I hate that thing," he muttered running a hand through his short brown hair and making sweat fly.

"Oh stop complaining, it is not as if you have to bind your chest," came the sarcastic remark from the stewart and Maria removed her own helmet. As former apprentices to the Master turned to two of his greatest assets they got to sleep in adjoining portions of the tent. "I will hear none of your belly aching," she chided him and grabbed a towel to wipe her brow and neck.

"It is not my fault I was born a man Maria and thus will never understand what it means to have to bind my chest," he reminded her and she punched him, hard, on the shoulder.

"You're pretty enough to be one," she snapped lightly at him.

He rubbed his shoulder where her metal covered fist had struck the chain mail. "You bruise my body and my fragile male ego," he told her with the straightest face and after a moment she broke and giggled. A rare sound from the woman who was often more stoic than most men Egil knew.

"There is hardly anything _fragile_ about you Egil," she told him and parted from him to go into her own part of the tent, which was more like two tents attached with a flap that connected the two parts.

Egil grabbed his helmet from the floor where he'd thrown it and went his own way as well. In his area was a cot, a weapons rack, an armor mannequin a desk and chair and a chest where he kept his clothing. Other than that there were no personal items to be found and it didn't even look like someone lived there at all. But than it wasn't like he had anything of import anyway. As the bastard son of a lesser French noblewoman and some Arab hardly anyone had wanted to even touch him growing up. He never knew his father and had been raised by a nanny most of his life until Robert had found him, trained him and gave him a purpose. He knew his mother didn't miss him, she thought he was an abomination, and had told him so at least once when she'd been a bit too heavy on the wine, and the nanny was only doing as told though probably didn't like him very much either. The Templars at the least welcomed his skill at the sword though the army didn't know that they had a so called 'sand rat' amid them and fighting for them and with them with one of the bloodiest track records any of them had seen. If they knew of him it was by name only and other than amid the Templars or around people who didn't matter (like those Germans) he was required to wear his helmet.

He pulled off his chain shirt and draped it over the mannequin's shoulders before shoving his helmet onto the stalk that served as it's head. Off went the metal bracers on his forearms and the leather guards under them as well as the stiff leather greaves which all got arranged around the mannequin. Sometimes he thought it was ridiculous to wear so much clothing and armor in such a hot place and it didn't help that the padded shirt he wore under his chain-mail was especially sniffling. Under the padding he wasn't sweating since the shirt absorbed the sweat but he still felt dirty from all the dirt and grim and dust and sand which got in everywhere. He wasn't used to this weather despite being half native and didn't appreciate how dirty everything got.

Stripped of his oppressive gear Egil sat down on the cot given to him and ran a hand through his hair again as the sweat began to dry on his scalp leaving his hair stiff to the touch. He thought briefly about digging some civilian clothes from his trunk and going into Acre, but decided against it since it could end up being more hassle than it was worth since he looked enough like one of those Saracens to get harassed by the guard if he walked around with his sword. All of his usual activities also didn't interest him and for the idea of not beating someone in the sparring ring to not interest him he was very bored. He also knew he'd get no pleasure out of bothering Maria since once she went into her part of the tent if you even attempted to look into it you'd get a book or a knife thrown at you, whichever was the most handy for her.

He thumped back onto his cot and looked up at the top of the tent for want of something to do. Maybe Robert would give him something to do, send him to do something important. The likelihood seemed unlikely since after the conquest of Acre the Templar Master kept him by his side at all times and rarely gave him permission to leave the camp. Of course it probably had everything to do with his 'accident' which had left his face scarred and missing a finger. An inconvenient finger to lose if he ever chose to be married at that. That seemed unlikely given his mixed heritage.

He huffed a groan, not liking this train of thought and decided to just go to sleep until the time came that Robert actually needed him for anything. He kicked off his boots and pulled off his shirt and pants since it was to hot to sleep in the middle of the day fully dressed whereas at night he couldn't seem to have enough blankets, damn Holy Land weather. He settled down and threw the thin sheet over his legs to at least keep himself decent and tried to sleep in this heat.

—

He woke when he felt a hand on his shoulder and his eyes snapped open, hand going for the knife under his pillow in an instant. "Easy there," the sound of Robert's voice stopped any next move he wanted to make. He finally blinked himself into wakefulness and noticed it was growing dark because the tent was cast in the baleful red light. Robert was standing at the side of his cot hand still on his shoulder and looking down at him.

"Sir," he said releasing his hold of the knife under his pillow and sat up and gently brushed the other man's hand away.

"Maria made sure I woke you," Robert said and Egil turned away from him and standing.

"Is something amiss?" he asked reaching for where he'd left his pants and pulled them on aware of Robert watching him but ignored it.

"No," he said and the hair on the back of Egil's neck stood up on end, "She ordered me to wake you for dinner."

"Ah, you are taking orders from Maria again hmm?" he cast a mischievous glance over his shoulder, "She'll get a big head if you keep doing that," he said and buckled his pants securely into place. "Robert?" he asked when the bald man didn't reply and as he grabbed his shirt he looked back again, Robert was still there.

"She could do with some confidence," he said though he sounded distracted and Altair pulled his shirt on sharply before throwing open his chest and pulling on a fitted vest as well and shoved his feet into his boots.

"Dinner Robert," he said surprised by the own tone as he walked stiffly past the Templar and found Maria in the main area sans helm sitting at the table with, not surprisingly, a book in her lap as she waited for them.

"Finally he wakes," she said when she saw him. "I was afraid dinner would get cold," and motioned to the plates that had been set out on the field table with their meal.

"I doubt my presence would keep you from eating if you were truly hungry," he said as he walked around the table and gently tugged on her long braid before taking a seat. She just scowled at him but he just smiled at her pleasantly, after a few seconds she offered one back, she could not stay angry at him for long. The two were like siblings and it was almost their duty to harass each other and get on each other's nerves. Egil liked that since while he'd had siblings they'd found him and his dark skin distasteful, Maria however didn't care about his skin color or she'd be a hypocrite since she did not wished to be judged for similar things simply because she was a woman. "Though perhaps you could go without a meal or two and not be significantly affected," and he got a punch to the shoulder for that.

"Enough," Robert said and they sat in their chairs, looking down like scolded children as their Master took a seat. Grace was said and they ate passing friendly conversation until it was interrupted by one of Richard's men. Something urgent had happened that required Robert's presence and with a few muttered words the bald man left his meal to follow the man to the main camp.

"You don't think the Master will want his cold food do you?" Egil asked after several minutes when Robert didn't come back.

"If you ate it he could not care," Maria huffed and nibbled on some olives. "You could kill his second in command and get away with it," she lamented.

"Now I doubt that greatly," Egil said but helped himself to the abandoned plate since his was empty. "Maria," he asked as he ate and she just hummed, watching him, "Can I sleep with you tonight?" he asked only daring to look at her from the corner of his eye.

"Why? What happened?" though she did not seem genuinely shocked by this request since he'd asked for it before though she always required a reason before hand.

"Robert," was all he said and bit at his lip where the newly healed scar was. He'd found when he was anxious he gnawed on his lip where the cut had been made.

"Of course you can," she said and patted his hand gently. He loved and respected his Master, just not like _that_ and Maria was a safe haven for when he was worried the older man forgot himself. He was pretty sure that Robert feared Maria's wrath far more than Richard's, for she did not take kindly to men who forced her hand and while he could over power her easily if he wanted she would find a way to pay him back in full, though doing so without laying a hand on him. "Do you wish to practice once you finish gorging yourself?" she asked lightening the mood instantly. If he didn't think of Maria as a sister he'd probably be in love with her because she always knew how to make him feel better and take away any worries he had.

"Swords?" he asked deliberately taking a large bite out of the bread and she giggled.

"Training swords, no need to scare the Master with me damaging the pretty face of yours further," and she reached over to gently push his cheek, he made a face at her and finished eating. As he was piling up the plates up for one of the soldiers to come take Maria spun her braid up into a bun at the top of her head and they left the tent.

In this part of the camp they were free to walk around without their helmets to hide their faces for everyone here knew them and knew better than to make some wayward comment or they'd find themselves at the point of a sword very quickly. The practice area was empty but there were torches set up and the sun had not set completely so they had enough light to see by. There were practice swords for them to use and they both found one they liked before facing off.

Egil struck first, as usual trying to overpower his opponent with his speed and strength. It was a bit of a poor technique against Maria since she was just as fast as him and an even smaller target for his sword to find. He hissed an annoyed curse when Maria's sword snaked through his defenses and slapped him on the flank making him quickly dart away to put some distance between them. "C'mon Egil don't run away," Maria taunted him stalking over to continue to slap swords. He shifted how he fought as they did so, not using his strength so much as his speed and slowly getting faster and faster till Maria couldn't keep up and he spun her sword away. "I yield," she lifted both hands, panting, her brow streaked with sweat, when Egil raised his sword almost to her throat. "That was entertaining," she said as he dropped the sword down also panting and sweaty from the sword play.

"You fought well," he puffed as she retrieved her sword from the ground. "We best call it a night, it is getting dark," he notted as the sun's afterglow was now fading. Maria nodded and they put their swords back and returned to their tent, Robert still was not back. That suited Egil just fine and he went to find someone who could bring him water for a bath before going back to the tent.

Water arrived shortly and he soaked glad to finally get all that sand and dirt and sweat off of him. He found he bathed more often in this country, he could only stand so much dirt before it got ridiculous and there was plenty of dirt to be had here. He lifted his head from the back of the tub when he heard movement in the main tent. "Egil, Maria," Robert barked summoning them and Egil stumbled out of the bath splashing water everywhere. He grabbed a towel and quickly put it around his waist before entering the main tent where Maria already was in her sleeping gown.

"What is it sir?" he asked.

"Both of you get dressed, we're leaving," he ordered and across the tent Egil and Maria exchanged looks.

"What is it?" Maria asked.

"We'll discuss it later. Clothes. Now," he snapped and exchanging another bewildered look they both vanished into their own rooms to dress. Egil emerged first though didn't know if he needed his armor or not so had forgone it.

"What's the matter Master?" he asked tentatively as Robert paced.

"Nothing is 'the matter', everything is good," he said, "Wonderful in fact," Egil didn't know if he should be wary of his Master's good mood or not.

"Where are we going? Do we need to bring our gear?"

Robert seemed to remember something, "Yes, of course, I got ahead of myself," he chided himself in an annoyed fashion. "Your gear Egil and a few changes of clothing, we're leaving Acre."

"Where are we going?" he asked and could hear Maria in her room rapidly throwing things into a bag.

"Jerusalem."

* * *

><p>Just end a fic and already starting another instead of working on fics I've had lying around waiting to be written. Yeah, that sounds about right. Deal with it.<p>

Kinkmeme request asking for Templar!Altair. Huuuurrrrp.


	2. The Man With No Name

I do whatever the fuck I want.

* * *

><p>He knew it was dark, even if his eyes were closed he knew it was dark because it <em>felt<em> dark, somewhere cool. He could hear people talking, as if from a great distance, for their voices were muddles and instinct and he couldn't focus on what they were saying though he had a feeling he should be able to understand them. He swallowed and his throat was dry and it hurt. That first pain led him to be aware of other pains, minor though, more stiffness as if he'd been lying there for a long time.

"—they thought he was one of us, here," the voices he'd been hearing suddenly became more distinct. "He's missing a ring finger, it you look though he's also missing half of his pinkie," and someone picked up his hand as if to show someone.

His eyes flashed open then and he sat up abruptly startling those in the room. His vision swam and pitched back and forth and he couldn't focus on them. Then like on a delayed fuse his nerves' signals finally reached his brain and all at once he screamed in pain and was acutely aware of several large bloody wounds on his person.

That was all he remembered before he blacked out again.

—

The next time he woke it was brighter and warmer and he knew the sun was out because the entire place smelled like hot stone. He remembered the last time he'd woken and was wary of movement. He started first with his hand, moving the fingers of his damaged hand, they responded, a bit sluggishly but they responded. He tried moving his right hand and pain spiked up his entire arm and he bit back a cry of pain that came out as a muffled grunt. He had only slight mobility in that hand, enough to gently wiggle his fingers, beyond that there was pain, it felt broken. Next came his feet and both of them responded as he wiggled his toes and rolled his ankles but when he tried to bend his left knee he was met with more pain and only then did he realize his lower leg was wrapped and splinted and that he couldn't feel it. So he was currently out an arm and a leg.

He lifted his left arm cautiously, it didn't hurt so much as just ache from being immobile for so long and carefully he reached under the blanket to find out where the other places he hurt were. His chest was totally wrapped in bandages but he knew where he was hurt because it made him wince. There were two places, one on his flank and another through the fleshy part of his stomach. He reached up and touched his head and was met with more bandages.

Slowly he touched his face and found at least that he wasn't scarred there, except for on his lips, there was a substantial mark there from a scar that he could feel around the thickening growth on his jaw and chin. He knew immediately that he didn't like the beard and as soon as he was able he wanted it cut. How one cut a beard he wasn't sure but he'd get it done because now that he thought about it it itched something fierce.

He turned his gaze outward now and from his place on the bed he could see two other beds next to him but he did not comprehend their significance. There was a little table next to his bed with bandages and earthen jars with corked stoppers as well as regular lids but what interested him was the large jug. He imagined it held water and he was _so thirsty_. He reached out and his hand wrapped securely around the handle of the jug and he tried to lift it. His arm shook before he found he didn't have the strength and he dropped it, it rolled on the table getting water everywhere and knocked off the bandages as well as another jar before it too fell and smashed to pieces.

Suddenly there was someone else in the room. An older man who scolded him for trying to lift the jug when clearly he was in no condition to do anything but rest. He just stared at the man in bewilderment not knowing what to do. He watched the man clean up the mess, muttering to himself before returning with a cup. "You wanted water, yes?" he asked, he nodded and the man helped lift his head and drink.

When the older man went to leave he reached out and grabbed his sleeve with his good arm, "More, please," he rasped startling himself with his grasp of the language, though it made sense that if he could understand what the man was saying he could also speak it. The man just patted his arm and he let him go so he could pour another cup. This time he managed to drink on his own and the man seemed pleased. For some reason that made him happy, though he wasn't sure why.

"Rafiq?" someone called from out of the room, "Rafiq are you here?"

The rafiq, if that was what he was, turned away from him at the doorway where he could see daylight coming in from outside. He took the cup back and set it on the table before leaving and he could hear the rafiq's voice as he talked with another, someone younger, with a very professional tone. They were talking to softly to be understood though, he wasn't very interested in what they could be saying anyways.

After a few minutes the rafiq returned and blessedly gave him some more water then pulled back the sheet and checked the bandages on his chest and with gentle hands inspected both his right arm and left leg. "You're coming along nicely," the rafiq informed him with a smile but he did not offer the man one back. The rafiq mixed something up before handing him another cup, "Drink," he ordered and he sniffed the cup, it smelled like fruit and made his stomach clench as he realized he was hungry. He knocked back whatever the rafiq had given him before coughing at the sharp taste of it and wincing as he strained some of his wounds. "There there," the rafiq soothed him and gently stroked his hair. He swallowed a few times and the rafiq let him have more water when he coughed some more at the strange chalky liquid he'd just drunk. "You'll feel better soon," the rafiq told him as he lay in the bed staring at him trying to figure at least _something_ out, like where he was.

He tried to open his mouth, thinking to ask, but his tongue was too heavy to move and he felt tired again. The rafiq watched quietly as he slipped back off to sleep.

—

He woke several times after that, not sure how many hours or days passed between his moments of lucidity. Each time he woke though he felt better and the rafiq cared for him when he was, eventually letting him eat soft foods and helping him hold the cup of water. They didn't speak much but that was probably for the better since when he had to think too much he got a headache, even if he did he didn't know what to say to the rafiq when he asked where he was from or what his name was, for he couldn't remember, and whatever medicine the man was giving him and making him sleep probably didn't help.

It was the sixth time he'd been awake that the rafiq thought he was strong enough to get out of bed. His wounds had been extensive and apparently the fact that he was even alive was a miracle.

The rafiq helped him hobble out of the room and he knew that never in his life had he felt this weak, he didn't know how he knew, just that he did. Beyond the cool back room he'd been confined to was another room with a larger bed in it and it looked well lived in, he imagined that was where the rafiq lived, but that was further into the building and the man was leading him out into the more lighted area. This room was large with a long counter that they were currently standing behind and it looked very much like a tailor, he didn't know how he knew it was a tailor, but he just got the idea from it and it explained why the rafiq had such well made clothing. Beyond that room was another doorway which contained a tiled courtyard area with some potted plants as well as pillows and rugs.

He managed to sit without to much discomfort and the sun felt amazing on his skin which looked amazingly pale next to the rafiq's now that he was out here in the light. The rafiq joked that he looked like a ghost and he gave a tentative smile that made the older man beam at him like an affectionate grandfather. Once he was comfortable the rafiq went back inside and he could hear him moving things around before sitting on the floor inside with what looked like a collection of cloth. He watched as the rafiq worked, needle flashing in the dimmer light from inside.

After a while he grew bored and inspected the rest of the outside area. It had a latticed roof and two fountains, though only one seemed to be working. The lattice also had a hole in it, a large one, and there was a doubled area and after a few moments of pondering it he realized that the roof could be closed. Why, however, there was such a hole in the roof he had no idea.

He was out there for a while, soaking in the sun an trying to think. He'd done remarkably little of it since before now he'd been either asleep or his mind was on his injuries or the fact that he was thirsty or hungry. Now though he could think and he tried to piece together his situation. It was proving difficult though since he had no memory of what had happened to him before waking up that first time in the back room. He tried to recall his name, since that seemed the easiest thing, but found he couldn't. He couldn't remember anything. Beyond waking up here there was nothing but a void in his memory and he didn't know what to even think about that. It was obvious he hadn't lost all his skills though since he could speak the language and seemed to have vague understandings of concepts or places and what things were, but that was all definition, true memory was beyond him.

The more he thought about it the more upset he became. Who was he? Who had he been before this? Did he have someone who missed him? If so what were their names? Where was he from? Where was he in the first place? Who was this rafiq? Why was he hurt? Also why did he have old scars and why was me missing one and a half fingers? What had happened to him?

Nothing at all made sense and then it made even less when a shadow passed over him. He looked up quickly and then gave a startled yelp when a figure dropped down from the opening in the lattice. He stared open mouthed at the figure for they were very intimidating. They wore layered white robes with a red sash and leather armor around their middle and on their arms were simple but elegant vambraces. What made him intimidating though was his face, or rather lack of one for he wore a hood, tapered in the front, that hid his eyes. His mouth was a firm line of perpetual annoyance and unlike the rafiq with his beard this man was young and had shaved most of his face save for a small patch on his chin and a day or two worth of stubble along his jaw.

"What're you looking at?" growled the man in white and immediately he turned away as they walked past him. "Safety and peace rafiq," they said as the new man entered the room and quickly he popped his head back up to watch him.

"Ah, greetings Malik, you return. With good news as well I hope," said the rafiq.

"Unfortunately I do not," the man, Malik, cast a glance back over his shoulder at him looking displeased. "I do not wish to speak of it where prying ears may hear," he said once he'd face forward again.

"Come into the back then," and the rafiq stood and led Malik into the back. He strained to watch them but eventually lost sight of them when they went behind the counter. He could hear them talking though as usual whenever the rafiq had guests they spoke to quietly for him to hear. A new mystery it seemed. Who was this man? He had a name, Malik, but who was he? Why did he wear the clothing of a priest? He didn't look much like a priest with that gear or that scowl. He rewound his memory, the one he actually had, and saw Malik again in his mind's eye. Not only was he in armor but he had a sword too, one that was partially concealed by his robes which now that he thought about it were cut strangely from how he assumed robes were to be cut. They were like flower petals, or feathers.

His brow furrowed and he rubbed his head as a headache came on. Okay, maybe all this thinking and worrying was not the best idea. He groaned when I didn't go away but intensified till it felt like his skull wanted to split open. Yes, no more questions for a while, not until he could think without even hurting himself since everything he did seemed to hurt him.

"-'er still looking for him but nothing has come of it. It is even slower for the novice," he heard Malik's voice through his headache. "He may be my brother bu- is he all right?" and he glanced up seeing them both in the shadowed room..

"Probably another headache," the rafiq said and vanished into the back. "He's been out there all day, help him inside for me Malik," he called from the back.

Malik sighed and walked over to him and with far gentler hands than he expected from a man like him helped him to his feet. He slammed his eyes shut trying to will away the pain behind his eyes but it would not go and Malik helped him out of the sun and inside to sit on a stool. The rafiq reappeared as Malik let him go and pushed Malik out of the way to rub something on his forehead and behind his ears. It smelled strongly of something vile but he didn't complain. "Suck on this," he ordered and held out a sponge. He didn't ask why and did as he was told as the rafiq had never steered him wrong before. Whatever the rafiq had soaked the sponge in tasted terrible but he refrained from spitting it out.

"He gets these often?" Malik asked the rafiq.

"Yes," he nodded.

"Is his brain damaged?"

"Perhaps, I'm not entirely sure, it is not as if I can examine his brain," the rafiq said.

"Why is he even here?"

"One of the novices found him out in the street, they thought he was one of us," there was that line again. One of who? The question made his head ache, though not as severely as before.

"He looks like a man," Malik said unimpressed before making a sound of understanding when the rafiq lifted his hand and showed him the severed fingers. "Well that does explain it," he agreed. "And I assume he wore white?"

"Yes. Though I had to burn his clothing, they were ruined by all the blood. I doubt he could have bled that much to stain them so, I think he may be a soldier and got into a fight."

Those words jangled something in his memory and he blinked several times as he saw what looked like an endless column of men all marching across the plains. That was all though,

"Well he does not appear dangerous at least," Malik said.

"Hah, no, not a all. Whoever he was fighting wounded him greatly, he's been bed ridden for over a month."

"A month, poor man," he heard pity in Malik's voice and a shot of flame burned in his gut. He growled angrily. "Heh, even if he can't walk on his own he has quite some fire," Malik said. He took the sponge out of his mouth because he could no longer stand the taste.

"My ears work just fine," he growled.

"He speaks," Malik was mocking him, he already didn't like this man.

"Malik please, do not patronizie him, he's my patient."

"I apologize, it is just easy," Malik didn't sound sorry at all though. The rafiq frowned. "Since you can speak do not keep us in suspense, who are you?"

He stared at Malik with a steady gaze glad that the headache he'd had was gone, "I don't know."

"Oh how enigmatic," though he could not see his eyes he knew Malik was rolling his eyes. "Your name then, what is your name?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything, I just woke up here."

Malik turned to the rafiq, "Did you know of this?"

"Yes," the rafiq nodded.

"You could have informed me."

"I prefer to watch you make your own blunders. It keeps you humble," the rafiq said sounding smug when Malik seemed almost embarrassed. "Now please stop harassing my patient and get along with your mission, I'm sure your brother is wondering what became of you," and he made a shooing motion. Malik looked between the two before sweeping out of the room. "Don't mind him," the rafiq said gently and patted his shoulder.

"He should learn manners," he said.

"Ah, that is the hope," the rafiq sighed, "Now then, how do you feel?"

"Warm. And hungry," he said and the rafiq chuckled.

"Then let us have some lunch," he said with a smile.


	3. These Great Wonders

There were many mysterious surrounding this place. Or he thought so at least. Like why did a tailor live in his shop and with two back rooms, one of which was an infirmary? Why also did he get strange visitors who came catcalled hours and never through the front door but from the roof over the little courtyard garden? He didn't know why and he didn't feel it his place to ask since already the man was taking care of him though he appeared to have no motive to do so.

Malik was also a regular visitor as was another man who dressed similarly though with a gray hood which he recognized by voice. The others who came to the tailor he didn't recognize for they all wore the same clothing and did not speak in his presence. These two however were different. Malik in his strangely cut white robes and the other man in robes cut very similarly but not the same and they were much more ornate (if such simple things could be called that) then the others who came in dressed in gray hoods.

He didn't speak to them or them to him but that suited him fine. He wasn't afraid of them, though he felt he should be, he couldn't find himself to be though. He figured that he was a brave person then if a man like Malik didn't frighten him.

After about a week of him being more awake than asleep the rafiq removed the brace on his leg. It thankfully no longer hurt when he moved it though it was still tender. It did mean however that he could move around with greater ease and could even get to the lavatory by himself. The bindings on his wrist however stayed since the bones had been in a much worse shape than his leg and he no longer had to wear the bandages around his chest either.

He helped the rafiq with some of his work and while he was a horror with a needle he had incredibly steady hands and helped the older man who's own hands shook a bit sometimes with his age.

He didn't quite know what to do with himself though most of the time. The rafiq didn't let him leave the shop and even if he did he didn't know where he'd go. He didn't even have a name and the rafiq didn't see fit to give him one though simply saying that's he'd remember his name eventually and shouldn't have a new one to confuse him. There was just one problem. He /wanted/ a name. He wanted purpose, he wanted /something/ even if that something was just a name.

It was a day that that gray hooded man who was always with Malik appeared. He didn't know the man's name, he just knew it was Malik's brother because they referred to each other as such and he also looked a bit like the older man. The rafiq had left to go to the market leaving him there alone when the man dropped down into the garden.

"Safety and peace rafiq," called the young man, they were even younger than he was. They looked around for the old man but did not see the rafiq, only him. "Where is the rafiq?" he asked.

"He went to market," his voice was flat and unmoved. "He needed more cloth."

"When will he be back?" he just shrugged and eyed the young man warily when he approached. "My brother says you do not have a name. Is that true?"

"I have a name," he growled, "I simply don't remember it."

"What do you remember?" he asked curiously.

"Waking up in the back room, the rafiq talking about my hand," he showed off his left hand and the man nodded.

"Nothing before that?"

"No."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"... What is your name?" he asked tentatively.

The man grinned, "I am Kadar," and abruptly he pulled down his gray hood. Kadar was a handsome young man with the most amazing colored eyes. They were blue, like the color of water off the coast. He jolted when he realized he shouldn't know what water off the coast looked like since Jerusalem was no where near one. "Is everything well?" he asked because he was staring.

"Your eyes," he admitted, "I was not expecting them."

Kadar laughed, "Most do not," he grinned. "You're sure you don't know when the rafiq will be back."

"He did not tell me," he said truthfully.

"I see," Kadar pursed his lips. "Did he say which market?"

"Is it important?"

"Yes, and I am in a hurry," Kadar nodded.

"I believe he said the central market for cloth and dyes," he said.

"Ah, thank you," and the blue eyed man grinned at him, "I shall take my leave then," and he pulled his hood back up before leaving for the courtyard. He followed the other man there and watched him scramble with great ease up the wall and over the lip of the hole in the lattice before he was gone. He frowned to himself and looked at his lame right hand thinking that if it wasn't still healing he could climb up there too and at the least be outside.

—

Kadar returned some time later and as he did the rafiq also came back from the market and he knew the young man had gone to get him for whatever purpose. He watched curiously as they talked in softer tones and the rafiq handed him a feather. How strange. Feather in hand Kadar fled, scurrying up the fountain like a squirrel.

He pondered over the feather for a while before the rafiq took possession of his steady hands to help him thread needles with different colored threads for later use. It was very boring but gave him something to do at least.

A few hours later two people dropped down into the courtyard. "My boy, go into the back room," the rafiq told him. He sighed softly when he looked around and saw Malik and Kadar step into the room. He ducked his head and went into the back. Back there he couldn't hear them and he dropped down onto the cot he'd been sleeping on feeling annoyed.

He didn't like being back here if he couldn't help it since it reminded him of the awful things the rafiq made him take to make him feel better. Because of that he hadn't really explored it like he had the front room so he was surprised to see a shuttered window there. He glanced at the doorway but they were still talking and went to the window. With very little trouble he tripped the lock and opened the shutters a bit to look outside. The lane it opened to was mainly empty but he could hear people if he strained. He glanced over his shoulder before hoisting himself onto the ledge, his right arm complaining, but he ignored it. He hopped down from the sill and closed the shutters back up before picking a direction at random and went to explore.

—

Jerusalem was amazing. Simply amazing. There were just people /everywhere/ and smells and things to hear everything to see and he was hearing and seeing and smelling them for the first time all over again. He heard many languages being spoken and many dialects though he noted he could understand a few, he couldn't put a name to them however.

He'd been walking for a while before it occurred to him that his leg was tired. He found a bench and sat with a happy sigh. He was glad to be out of that shop since he'd been cooped up there for about six weeks including his stay in bed. He hadn't known till he was outside that he'd been miserable since he had nothing to compare the experience too. But now he did and he found he didn't much like being forced to remain in one place for so long.

He sat back with a grin and tipped his head back to look at the sky. It was much bigger out here than from behind the lattice over the garden. He stretched his leg out in front of him to let it rest as he relaxed. There was just so much to see he didn't even know where to begin.

—

It was later in the day when he realized that while this was nice he was very much lost. He was also getting hungry and had no idea where he was. That probably wasn't the best thing. He started when suddenly he heard people calling others inside to this large building. It was actually huge with a great golden dome at the top. Hesitantly, not knowing what else to do he went inside the building along with many others. Inside it was practically empty though filling with people. He saw a few sitting on the floor and he had no idea what was going on.

"Are you lost child?" he practically jumped out of him skin when someone approached him. They were an older man, about the same age as the rafiq, with a full beard and a turban.

"... I think I am," he admitted wondering who this man was and didn't know if he could trust him. He was wary of strangers just on instinct and since that was all he had he tended to trust them over more complex thought. "I've never been in a place like this," he confessed.

"Ah, are you Jewish?" he just blinked blankly at the man. "A Christian then?" the word sounded familiar so he nodded even though he didn't know what it was. "What brings you to the Dome of the Rock then?" he asked.

"I... just heard those men out there," he felt like an idiot, such an idiot and wanted to just leave and save himself the humiliation.

"Hmmm, and this is your first time at one of our services?" the man raised his brows at him and he nodded slowly. "You show an interest in Islam, not a common practice among you Christians," he said jokingly but smiled gently. "Come, you can watch," he said and led him out of the way of the people milling around and they sat down off to the side.

He admitted that he watched the goings in with a sort of fascinated attention. The man tried to talk to him but he ignored him, there was to much to see and he didn't particularly care for the subject. Something about someone named Allah and prayers and Muhammad and all a bunch of other stuff that went right over his head. Then the service started and he watched and listened attentively with the same curious amazement he gave everything else.

When the prayer finished and people got up, milling about, talking as well as simply leaving alone or in groups, he just sat back and watched. There were people of all sorts of color here and none of them seemed to mind or even care. For some reason he felt himself tearing up but for the life of him didn't know why. "Are you all right?" the man asked.

"I- yes, I'm sorry I don't know what came over me," he said quickly rubbing at his eyes. "I think some dust got in my eye," he said wondering why he was crying. The man just sat there but said nothing till he collected himself.

—

The imam let him stay in the mosque that night since he had no where else to go. The holy men were kind to him and helped him when he needed it because of his arm. In the morning they fed him again and he said goodbye, promising nothing and only offering his gratitude as payment, which seemed enough for them.

He tried to find his way back to the tailor but ended up getting terribly confused and soon lost all sense of direction leaving him to wander aimlessly. He sort of regretted leaving yesterday but at the same time was glad he had because it meant he got to see this beautiful city full of all these amazing new things.

It was the afternoon when his exploration ground to a sharp halt. He was just walking when suddenly someone reached out and grabbed him. Surprisingly he didn't panic or scream but instead thrust his elbow back catching his attacker in the gut winding him. They didn't let go though completely and without thinking jerked his head back smashing the person square in the nose with his own skull. Their hands fell and he ran.

He only stopped when he was out of breath and his left leg throbbed uncomfortably, for while he could walk on it just fine rubbing made it sore, forcing him to sit. Once he was sitting could he wonder what had just happened. He'd just been attacked but he'd hurt his attacker. It hadn't even been conscious thought, it had just happened and it freaked him out. How had he done that? How did he know how to do that? Such things should be impossible right? He wasn't some warrior right? All the thinking made him lean forward and put his head between his knees as a headache struck him like a brick.

He looked up when he heard something drop next to him and almost fell off the bench from Malik's sudden appearance. He looked especially pissed too.

"There you are," he growled. He just winced, Malik's words hurt his brain. "What got into you you moron?" Malik demanded. He didn't answer, his head hurt too much to form a sentence. "Well?" he demanded. He just shook his head and pressed his hand to his head. "Oh, how convenient," Malik grumbled. "C'mon, I'm taking you back to the rafiq," and he grabbed his sore wrist.

Bad idea. He wasn't in the mood for more pain and punched Malik right in the face with his left hand. "Do not touch me," he managed to growl as Malik stumbled back from the strike to the face, seeming to be surprised by the assault. Doing that though made his head swim and he staggered. He hated these headaches and wished they'd just /stop/.

"The hell?" Malik cried, "You just hit me!" He just clapped his hands over his ears as Malik's voice made his ears ring. "Oi, did you hear me?" Malik growled getting right in his face. He hadn't, but he heard that.

"Malik!" he heard someone yell, it sounded like Kadar but he wasn't sure.

"This bastard just punched me," Malik said sounding furious.

"Let him go brother, he's hurt," Kadar said and pushed the other man's hands off him. "Are you all right?" he just shook his head. "Come, the rafiq is worried over you," Kadar said gently. He gladly went with Kadar who unlike his brother knew how to be gentle.

It took them quite a bit of time to get to the tailor and by then his headache had dulled though not left him. "You found him!" the rafiq cried when he saw him. "Where did you go?" he demanded. He worked his mouth a moment trying to think of something to say but didn't really know what /to/ say. Instead he just shrugged. "Where did you find him?" he asked Malik.

"The poor district, west of the Dome of the Rock," Malik replied. "He punched me in the face," he added bitterly.

"So I have heard many times," Kadar sighed, "at least he did not head butt you," and he felt bad when he realized his "attacker" had actually been Kadar.

"He did?" the rafiq asked curiously. "How interesting."

"Yes, very interesting," Malik grumbled. "Now that this wild camel chase is over Kadar and I need to getting back, we're already a day behind now."

"Yes, of course. Thank you for finding him," the rafiq said and the brothers left through the courtyard. He felt useless. He'd been lost and had needed someone to find him, for some reason that made him angry, almost bitter. He could defend himself well enough! "So," he looked up when the rafiq spoke, "why don't you tell me about what you saw?" he asked and his heart jumped. The rafiq was worried over him, though not exactly angry it seemed which made him glad. He nodded and the rafiq led him over to some chairs so he could tell him about it.


	4. These Hands Don't Sew

Uuuuuhg, long build up is long. Why do I do this to myself?

* * *

><p>It was maddening. He was pretty sure he was going mad. How one person was expected to tolerate such isolation was beyond him. At the least he had full use of his hand again which was a blessing though somehow also a curse since the rafiq seemed determined to teach him to sew.<p>

It was maddening.

When he managed to avoid the work of being forced to learn such a redundant skill, one his hands were seemingly too clumsy for despite their stillness, he was either laying out in the garden or moving. He was restless, like a caged tiger or lion but the rafiq didn't let him leave. He said it was for his own good, he was to old to go looking for him when he got lost and no one else would for him. At least he got to leave when the rafiq went to the market for food or supplies and he was always happy to be outside, like life was being breathed into his lungs. He knew the indoors weren't for him though they were readily forced upon him.

It was one of those days where he was particularly restless and just pacing back and forth in the courtyard, slowly wearing a trough in it, that the rafiq snapped at him that if he insisted on driving the old man to an early grave with his pacing he could kindly go do something highly unreasonable. After that he'd slumped onto the pillows in a depressed state feeling useless. He knew he wasn't like this, lazy and not doing anything. He'd come to this place with muscles, strong ones, but they'd become soft during the seven weeks he'd been here, vanishing with his prolonged bed rest as well as his diet. Thinking about it annoyed him greatly.

The rafiq cried out when he saw what he was doing. He might not have remembered what to do but his body did, it was instinct, drilled into every fiber of his muscles. He started off easy with just sit ups, something that wouldn't strain his arm and leg and the rafiq hadn't noticed them. It was when he started to do push ups that the elder man took issue.

"What has gotten into you boy?" he cried when he saw what he was doing.

"It's better than needle work," he muttered though knew the rafiq heard. He was sitting in the courtyard looking to the side as the rafiq stood over him like a scolding parent. "I'm bored," he said.

"You're going to hurt yourself, _again_," the rafiq huffed.

"I feel fine," he said despite the fact that his arm did hurt a bit, though it was a good hurt, one that shot waves of endorphins up into his brain.

"Do something that doesn't involve you doing stupid things," the rafiq shook a finger at him. He scowled at him slightly not liking his tone and not knowing why. It reminded him of someone, someone he didn't remember except as a half thought up idea, and they didn't like him at all.

"Fine," he grumbled and shoved himself over to the pillows to placate him. The rafiq gave him a stern look before going back inside to work. After several minutes he stood up, an idea forming, "I'm going to take a nap," he announced and went into the back room, the rafiq just bobbed his head. He undid the lock and opened the window to the outside and bathed the room in a great amount of light before pushing the three cots up against the wall as quietly as he could. Once that was done he had a space to exercise in. Doing them before had just felt _right_, like he'd done them thousands of times before and the rafiq was always telling him to do things that felt right as he tried to get his memory back. So far non except for brief flashes now and then of things with no context had returned to him, nothing distinct though, no faces, no names, no speech, just things like trees or rivers or the spires of a city. Once he'd heard a woman laughing but that was about as deep as his current memory went.

The rafiq came to check on him a few hours later and indeed found him sleeping after he'd exhausted himself with his work out. He woke when a hand rested on his shoulder and he reached for something under his pillow he was sure should be there but there wasn't. In a flash he woke and sat up, startling the old man. He turned in bed and tore away the pillow as if expecting something to be there, but there was nothing but the mattress. "Remember something?" the rafiq asked. Slowly he just shook his head, he didn't know what he remembered.

—

Each day he grew more lively and felt his body moving in new ways which surprised and scared him a little. During his 'naps' he got ideas, terribly ludicrous ideas about fighting, doing things he shouldn't be able to do. Only, when he tried to do them, he did, and on the first try too. It scared him quite a bit since he didn't even know what to think of himself at that. It was a new strange part of whoever he was… had been, and he wasn't sure what to think of it.

The rafiq said he needed to go to the market one day and seemed surprised when he said he didn't want to go since he lived for any reason he could go outside. He said no though because he wanted to try something he couldn't do where the rafiq could see and the infirmary was to small for he was afraid he'd hurt himself or break something. So the rafiq had just bid him goodbye and locked the door behind him.

He waited a few minutes, in case the rafiq came back because he forgot something (something he'd done before), and also moved aside some of the things in the main room so that there was nothing within easy reach that he could trip over, destroy by accident or hurt himself on if he didn't something stupid. Once he was satisfied he'd cleared enough space and that that rafiq wasn't going to come back he started stretching. He eased each muscle to proper limberness, especially his left left and right arm which he definitely didn't want to be to stiff or act up, before doing some basic exercises just so he didn't feel as foolish, he didn't even know if this would work.

He started out easy first with now familiar punches. Then slowly he started on the more 'interesting' moves he didn't even know he knew. Not exactly acrobatic but by far more fluid and dangerous than he had any rate to be. He stopped at one point his breath a little ragged from this since he'd been moving at greater and greater speed until he'd stopped, actually frightened by himself. His limbs thrummed with the movement though. They knew this felt right, and it did, it felt wonderful, like something he'd lost was being returned to him after it had been gone for a long time. Without thinking he grabbed the walking stick the rafiq had gotten him to use for about a day before he'd complained about it so much he hadn't mentioned it again. It was to help relieve strain on his leg but he didn't feel the strain anymore, both lower limbs felt great and were perfectly coordinated and moving without him even having to think it.

The cane in his hand morphed into a sword in his mind's eye and he swung with strange familiarity that made his heart jolt in his chest and speed up. He halted again wondering if he wanted to continue. He knew how to use a sword. Swords were the weapons of the soldiers and guards, normal people weren't allowed swords in the city, daggers or knives perhaps, but swords? No, it was frowned upon for Jerusalem prided itself on it's political and spiritual indifference and if people walked around with swords it would have seemed in bad taste. Did that mean he was a guard than? He gave an experimental swing of the cane and knew otherwise. He'd seen guards fight, they rarely actually used those swords they carried, preferring to beat with fists or batons, and when they did he could only imagine their movements were hesitant and untrained. This definitely didn't feel untrained to him. A soldier than? That also felt wrong, for almost the same reasons. Soldiers didn't have the sort of training he seemed to possess with hand to hand, they were brawlers, he knew he wasn't, and like the guard theory he felt to… precise.

He swung the cane in an arc letting himself sink into the movement instead of worrying about it. He was a swordsman, that was all, and he did not want to think further on the subject. Like his fists his 'sword' began to gain speed the longer he went with it. Like he was watching himself from outside his own body he watched as his arms moved at almost blinding speed weaving the 'sword' back and forth in complicated patterns. He didn't know how long he went on like this, this shadow fight, his body moving seemingly on its own.

"Rafi-

He came to an abrupt halt at the voice and looked rapidly over his shoulder, panting, more than a little sweaty from what he'd been doing. Standing in the doorway to the courtyard, his mouth open just a little, was Kadar. What was he doing here? "Kadar?" he croaked his voice feeling raspy and unused and dry. Kadar just stood there staring at him and though he couldn't see his eyes he knew they were wide. "Kadar," he said again voice firm.

"I didn't know you could do that!" he cried suddenly and threw up both arms.

He looked down at the cane in his hand, "That makes the two of us," he said still trying to catch his breath.

"Where's the rafiq?" Kadar asked quickly.

"He- he went to buy vegetables," he said a bit startled by the sudden enthusiasm in his voice, the eagerness in it.

"Thank you," and then he was gone. How very strange.

He looked back at the cane and put it back where he'd found it. If Kadar was looking for the rafiq then it seemed likely he'd be returning soon so he quickly put everything back in order before wiping himself down with a wet towel just so he wasn't so sticky with sweat. He had only dropped onto the pillows a moment or so earlier when the door opened, a heart beat later two forms dropped down from the latticed roof one after each other. It was Kadar and Malik, Kadar sort of staring at him, and Malik with all his coolness swept right past him without even batting an eye at him.

He stared at Kadar warily when the younger man suddenly sat down next to him and pulled off his hood. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" he asked.

"Shhh," he hastily clapped his hand over Kadar's mouth knowing the rafiq was probably listening. "The rafiq gets angry when he knows I've been doing that sort of stuff," he said sternly and Kadar nodded. "And… I don't know."

"Oh right, amnesia," he said as if realizing he was being stupid. Then in a softer tone he said, "You were amazing. I've never seen anyone fight like that except my brother, and he's a master," he seemed extremely excited about that too. He looked over at Malik and the rafiq who were talking in softer tones and when he looked as well he saw the rafiq didn't look pleased by something. "The Master seemed to have good reason to be interested in you," Kadar said and he looked over sharply.

"Who?" he asked.

"No," the rafiq said, rather loudly, and drew their eyes back to Malik and the older man. Malik said something in what was an angry tone as if putting his foot down.

He turned back to Kadar, "What does that mean?" he asked Kadar curiously.

"The Master heard about you. I don't know why, but he wanted to see you."

"Who is the Master?" he asked feeling something heavy in his gut.

"Al Mualim," Kadar said and the heaviness retreated to something manageable and he realized he was afraid. He'd never felt this emotion before but that was because before he'd never had to be afraid of something, but this was something new, something strange and he had a feeling something very important was about to happen.

"Why does he want to see me?"

"I don't know," Kadar shrugged, "Malik may know, if he does he hadn't told me though."

He was about to say something else when his eyes darted to the inside of the shop when he heard Malik's angry voice, "That is the Master's will, are you so sure of your position that you willingly go against it?"

"That man will ruin him and you know it," the rafiq said right back also sounding angry their voices growing louder.

"What he does it not of import-

"It is so! That man came to me broken and now he wants to break him all over again. If the Master wants him he can come off the mountain and take him himself," the rafiq told Malik in such an authoritative voice that even the proud Malik seemed knocked down a peg.

"Excuse me," he called out and and the two looked at him, Malik through the shade of his hood and the rafiq with an annoyed scowl directed at Malik. "Don't I get a say?" he asked and both looked as if they hadn't even considered it. He got to his feet and Kadar jumped up next to him, seeming to be eager to hear what he was going to say. "What do you want from me?" he asked Malik.

"Me? Nothing, I'd rather you stay here since you seem quite useless, but the Master wishes to see you. What he wants with you I don't know and I don't care, he just sent me to fetch you."

"Like the good dog you are it seems," he said emotionlessly and Malik fumed. "And where does this 'Master' want you to take me?" though he sounded calm inside his gut was working itself into a strange and uncomfortable knot of anxiety. He had no idea what he was doing, but like everything he thought he didn't know what to do he was just trusting himself to do it. It seemed he knew than he thought he didn't and just because he didn't have prior knowledge obviously didn't mean he didn't know what to do. That sword fighting earlier was clearly evidence of that.

"To Masyaf, he wants to meet you," Malik said.

"Where is Masyaf?"

"The mountains, north west of here."

He was silent for a few moments then to pretty much everyone's surprise he said, "I will go with you."


	5. A Condition of Perpetual Violence

Whatever he'd expected Masyaf to be it was definitely not this fortress. The village he'd expected, Malik and Kadar had both mentioned it, but that great stone fortress was something he had trouble comprehending. They'd told him there was a fort there, and they had passed forts and guard towers on their way here, but this… this was not a fort, this was a castle, a keep, an impregnable fortress with thick stone walls surrounding a sturdy stone building. There was a practical elegance in it's design with it's vaulted windows and doorways that looked out over a training field where he saw men in gray and white fighting with swords and daggers and knives, shooting bows and crossbows and throwing knives. They paid the three of them no mind but he was momentarily stunned by them, unable to continue walking as he watched the ones in white fight moving with beauty and fluidity that made his mouth hang open just a bit. He'd never in his wildest imagination thought that this would be the place that someone like the grumpy and stoic Malik and his more easy going and open brother could come from.

"Hey," Kadar broke his rapt attention on the fighters and he looked over, "We need to go," he said face serious and almost a scowl, eyes almost hidden under his eyes and he could see they were sharp and bright. This world made Kadar hard and he wasn't sure what to think of it.

"Right," he said and followed Kadar as he walked up the curved ramp up to the front of the fortress. Inside it was open with a huge staircase that led up to the second floor and he could see doors and hallways leading off to the sides of the first to parts unknown. Kadar tugged on his arm to keep him focused and he followed the brothers up the stairs. On the first landing of the grand stairwell was a tall doorway which led out to a beautiful set of gardens and he could see women relaxing in the shade of the fortress and small gazebos and arched trellises covered in creeping vines. He paused a moment to look out and his eyes, already tired from all that he'd seen in the past few days, grew more weary. He blinked hard and looked away feeling mentally exhausted, quickly following after the brothers who were walking up to the second floor.

Up here there were more hallways leading off from the main floor, which he assumed led to more staircases as well. This part of the fortress was shaped like a horseshoe where the ends became the stairs they'd just climbed and at the center was a desk surrounded by bookshelves. There was a man sitting at in in a dark robe and as they got closer he could see him better. He had dark robes indeed, practically black, though wore a similar garment as Kadar and Malik under it. They reminded him of the rafiq's only he had a dark hood as well. The man was old with more than fine lines marring his face and a full and trimmed white beard.

As they approached he lifted his head from the desk where he worked and looked at them with one eye, the other was dead and white with a scar etched into his flesh over it. He swallowed upon seeing the old man's face. "Malik, Kadar, you return," said the man.

"Yes Master," so this was the Master they'd spoken of. Al Mualim. "This is the man you sent us to retrieve," Malik said grabbing his arm and pulling him forward.

He responded with a snarl, "I am not some horse to be led around on a bit," he snapped at him jerking his arm away and could see Malik's eyes rolling at this distance.

"Indeed you are not," Al Mualim said and when he looked at the old man he felt… recognition? How could that be? He'd never met this man in his life, had never even seen anyone even remotely like him. "The rafiq in Jerusalem told me much about you my boy," he said walking around the heavy desk. "He said you didn't have a name."

"I wasn't aware that not having memory of one means I didn't have one," he said and felt his stomach turn into a tight knot and adrenaline started to pound through his system. He did not want this man to touch him, though he couldn't understand why. There was something about him he distrusted even upon this first meeting and he felt like he should not be so polite. So he wasn't.

Al Mualim just chuckled, "You are not nearly as courteous as he led me to believe either."

"I am kind to those who are kind to me. You have nothing to earn my trust. All you have done is send your dogs to 'fetch' me," he said wanting to take a step back when the old man got close but refused. He would not show weakness, something in him wouldn't allow it.

"My now, they are quite better trained than mere dogs, I think they would take offense to that," Al Mualim said and waved his hand. He heard Malik and Kadar leave thus leaving him with the old man who made him uncomfortable in ways he couldn't name, like he was doing something wrong and terrible and against his very nature simply by being in his presence. "But let us not worry about them, I am more interested in you," he said.

"And why is that?" he asked.

Al Mualim smiled crookedly and hair rose all over his neck and arms, he didn't like this, he _really _didn't like this. "It is good to see you again Altair," he said.

"What?" he asked his mind roaring with confusion.

"Altair, that is your name," Al Mualim said.

"It is not familiar," he said still startled by the older man's words and felt pressure starting to build up between his eyes.

"You have lost your memory, it is to be expected," Al Mualim nodded sagely and stroked his beard. "Do not worry, you will make new ones here," and he stepped closer, the pressure built up between his eyes and he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut as his mind roared, practically screaming, and throbbed painfully. "Is everything all right?" Al Mualim asked.

He shook his head and staggered backwards as his balance upended. That had not been the best idea at all as his mind tried to process this new information given to him by this man who he didn't know and felt he shouldn't trust. He wanted to believe it though, he wanted identity, he wanted purpose. He couldn't be no one. That was what his mind kept saying over and over again 'I AM NOT NO ONE!' But it all felt wrong, so wrong and that was all he had, his instincts, his feelings.

He felt his eyes roll back into his skull as it seemed his mind overheated and threatened to explode. He remembered cracking his head on the stone floor and someone yelling at a distance before the world went dark.

—

The wind up at the top of the fortress was strong and ruffled his newly cut hair. Before it had been long, almost reaching his shoulders, but like his beard he'd finally cut it off. It was a weight off his mind and his head that was a permanent change. He'd requested the cut, for what happened to his body was one thing he wouldn't allow others to decide for him, and that included his hair.

He'd woken up three days ago in the fortress hospital to a slightly panicked nurse who when he woke had gone running for the doctor. The doctor had been kind though had a hard set mouth and a firm voice. He said there was something wrong with his brain, from what he could deduce from information given by the rafiq in Jerusalem, the brother Al-Sayf, and his limited personal experience he said that putting to much stress on himself would make him pass out. Since that couldn't be allowed he suggested to not fight whatever may happen while he was here and given him a small ceramic jar filled with some vile liquid he said would help if he got a headache. The headaches he said were warnings that his brain was being overloaded and stressed and couldn't cope with it's current situation and he needed to relieve the stress by getting himself out of there. When the doctor had left he'd said, 'Heed my warnings, I don't want to see you back here again for this Altair.'

Altair ran a hand through his hair, a frown etched perfectly across his face. That was his name now. He had one, given to him by Al Mualim and it itched and crawled under his skin like something alive. He didn't _hate _it though, if only because it gave people something to call him other than 'hey you' or 'boy'. To him it validated his existence, that he was not just not some vagabond who'd been found dying in the streets of Jerusalem, not some faceless, nameless pinprick in the eyes of God— Allah, he was named now. Hopefully if something happened to him now, such that he died or became lost someone would miss him, that someone would miss Altair.

He tugged his hair and sighed letting his hand drop onto his knee which was raised in front of him. His eyes tracked a hawk that flew in an arc over the village down the mountain. He'd come up here to get away, to think, to not be under that intense gaze of Al Mualim who was expecting him to call him 'Master'. The idea of it made his vocal chords revolt, he couldn't say it, calling such a man his Master was something he couldn't do though he couldn't figure out why. Below he could hear the distant ring of steel on steel as some novices trained in the practice rings. Altair looked down at them and saw their small forms, darting in and out and even from here he thought they were sloppy. He knew he should have no right to judge them but he did.

His ears caught the sound of someone's boots on the stone and he turned startling them. "I thought I was being quiet," Kadar said grinning apologetically, his hood already ripped down by the wind. Altair said nothing, "I did not wish to disturb you," he admitted.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice business and Kadar frowned.

"The Master wants to see you. He's sent people looking for you."

"I do not wish to be found," Altair said looking away.

"I know this," Kadar padded over to him, "Why else would someone come up to such a difficult to reach place if they didn't want to be found."

"You found me," Altair noted thinking he'd need to find another place to be by himself.

"Malik used to come up here with his friends to escape the instructors," Kadar said, "He seems to have forgotten this though. I have not, I thought you might find this place to your likings." Altair only grunted, "Come down stairs."

Altair blinked out into, "What will happen if I do not?"

"You will be punished."

"How so?"

"No meals, beatings, chores," Kadar shrugged, "However much you displease the Master with your behavior-

"He is not my Master," Altair snapped at him, "He may have given my name but I owe him nothing and he does not own me like some common slave," Kadar bit both his lips. "He can oder me to do nothing. Go away," he said turning back around and watched as the hawk was joined by another as it cartwheeled across the sky.

Kadar sighed, "Please Altair," he said. "I told the Master you can fight with a sword, he wants to see you fight," that intrigued him. He was quiet for a time, slowly letting his mind digest the words. The doctor said to take information slow if he could so he didn't stress himself out, if he didn't he might cause himself permanent damage.

"Fine," he finally said and without thinking his tongue darted out and pressed against the scar on his lip for a second before retreating back into his mouth. That had never happened before since usually he forgot the scar was even there. He'd contemplate its relevance later. He got to his feet and dropped the few feet from where he'd been sitting on the ledge to the roof. He brushed past Kadar to where he'd found his way up by a tiny stairwell jammed up against the wall of the fortress that looked like it hadn't been used in some time and overlooked the canyon behind the fortress. He wasn't afraid of heights and instead of a three foot stairwell he treated it as though it was thirty feet not even worrying about falling off which would lead him into a free-fall into the water below which he knew would if not kill him than seriously injure him again. Behind him Kadar was a bit unnerved though he transversed the stairs without complaint. Within a minute he was opening the door to the uppermost level of the fortress, the door protesting greatly on its hinges which were rusted and old.

Kadar hustled behind him as he walked with purpose to the stairs and down to the second floor where Al Mualim was, where he always was. "Ah, Altair, there you are," he said when Altair appeared before him.

"You wish to see me fight," it wasn't a question as it rattled off his cool voice.

"Kadar claims you are still quite the swordsman, which is good to hear. I wish to see you in action myself," he said.

"Give me a sword," was all he said not doubting himself in the slightest.

Al Mualim gave a cunning smile and left his desk, "Come with me," he said reaching out to take hold of his shoulder but Altair side stepped out of it. That made the old man frown with displeasure, his dark eyes sparking with annoyance. "Kadar, you may leave us," he said dismissively and with a small bow Kadar left. Al Mualim walked and Altair followed next to him, not beside, nor in front, but next to. He was not this man's dog like everyone else in this fortress, he would not act like one. The old man walked down the stairs and out the fortress, not bothering to speak. "Rauf, a moment please," he said as they neared the training circle.

A man in white left the group of novices and approached him, "What can I do for you Master?" he asked with a slight bow and Altair felt his eyes dart to him when he stood, taking in Altair's form.

"Please give this man a sword, I wish him to fight one of your students," he said.

"Of course Master," Rauf nodded again and left them returning quickly with a sword and handed it hilt first to him. Altair took it, it was heavy but comfortable and he was in proper shape to wield it. He had no slacked on her exercises while on the road or in Masyaf itself and his muscles had returned to something similar to what they had been before his injuries. "Come with me," he said and motioned to him, Altair followed silently. "You two, enough of that," Rauf called to the two teenagers who were trading blows in the ring. "Abdul, you, in," he ordered and another teenager hopped the fence as the first two clambered over and out. "I do not know your skill level so I apologize if Abdul is to much or not skilled enough for you," Rauf said.

"You and I both shall see than won't we," and he ignored Rauf's confused face before climbing over the fence. He took a few practice swings with the sword to allow himself to adjust to the new weight his limbs still limber from his morning exercises. Once he was sure of himself he didn't even allow himself to think and his body shifted into a lowered stance. He beckoned to the teen with one hand. The teen's eyes narrowed in annoyance and he charged forward.

Altair watched his feet and chest and a split second before he would be hit he dipped out of the way and tripped his opponent with his foot. The teen stumbled and fell face first into the fence making those watching laugh and jeer at him. Altair circled around his back as he shook his head and glared at him, he was angry. Oh good. Angry people always made it so much easier to dispatch them. He didn't know where the thought had come from but he didn't dwell because the novice was on him again, trying to slash at him. He parried and slapped the sword away from his face, and stepped forward into his range and shifted his foot between his legs before swinging it outwards catching him off guard. The novice fell hard on the ground and Altair pressed his blade to his throat. He wasn't even breathing hard yet, nor had be built up a sweat beyond simply the natural one that occurred for being outside.

The novice growled at him, "I yield," and raised two fingers. Altair stepped away from him but did not offer a hand to help him up, he knew it wouldn't be accepted anyway.

"You fight with your head I see," he turned when Rauf spoke, the instructor was leaning against the fence. "Abdul does not think before he attacks, an easy target for a skilled warrior, which you clearly are," Altair said nothing. "Zev," he barked as Abdul hoisted himself over the fence, his shoulders full of his wounded pride. Zev leapt over the fence. He was tall and thin and looked light on his feet, unlike Abdul who was more heavy set. "See if he gives you more challenge."

Altair faced away from him now and watched Zev who held his sword out in front of him ready, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He could tell that Zev wouldn't lose his cool, nor would he attack first. Altair could manage that and stalked towards the thin teen his sword cocked out to his side before swinging upward in a diagonal arc. Zev jumped away, raising his own sword almost like a shield. His mind took in this new information and knew exactly what to do with it and without thinking and without hesitating lashed out with a force he didn't know he had. He bashed his sword again and again into Zev's, making his arm shake each time they collided and he could see that every time their swords connected he winced. If the boy was going to use his sword as a shield than he would take that shield from him.

They side stepped with each other across the ring before finally Zev released his sword, his hand no longer able to hold on from the pain of Altair's hammering. When he did he gripped his arm and worked his fingers which were seemingly numb to feeling. "Y-yield," he yelped as Altair shoved the edge of his blade close to his throat.

"Zev, you must never release your sword, ever," Rauf said from the side lines.

"Sorry sir, he is just very strong, I couldn't help it," Zev squeaked and Rauf made a shooing motion causing Zev to drop and pick up his fallen sword and climb out over the fence.

"Give me another sword, this one is beaten," Altair said showing his sword to Rauf, the edge had large nicks in it now from battering it against Zev's. Rauf nodded and yelled at a novice to bring him another. As he waited for the replacement his eyes went to Al Mualim who was sitting in a chair brought for him looking extremely pleased. "And give me someone who knows how to actually wield a blade," he snarled looking away and back at Rauf, hating the smug look on the old man's face.

"Very well," Rauf said, sounding unruffled. "Abi," he called, "Abi is the best in class, he is a very good swordsman."

"We shall see," Altair said now confidant in his own swordsmanship. When he faced off against Abi he knew why he was so good. He was calm, he did not bounce, he was not hot headed, and he seemed confident in himself, cool brown eyes meeting Altair's practically icy ones. Altair's body moved on its own again as it registered this new fighter and he could feel his mind spinning with ways to defeat him though if he focused on them to hard he found he didn't understand half of what he was thinking. This was all just instinct, all just muscle memory, and it was the greatest and most pure reminder of whatever purpose Altair may have had before his injuries that had found him in the rafiq's care in Jerusalem. More than anything he trusted these movements, this instincts and did not doubt them even now that he would make Abi yield as well.

They stalked around each other, neither making the first move. Altair moved forward away from the fence to get to the middle of the ring which pushed Abi back to keep his distance from him. Then he smirked and saw something he hadn't before. Abi was wary of him, he might be a good swordsman but he would never make the first move, he would rather run before fight. All he needed was the right— incentive. Altair took a quick double step forward and tapped his sword against Abi's before hastily dancing away when the teen lashed out like lightening. After that he grinned ferally as Abi came at him, striking at him but unable to land a hit, or when he did it met Altair's sword. His own sword wove in and out of Abi's looking for that crack in his defenses. He did not see it right away, for it was small, but highly exploitable.

As Abi swung down onto Altair's left side he left his right side vulnerable as he arm swung out and away from him to counterbalance his sword swing. Altair did not think, he only acted and as their swords met he used his own left arm. His hand became a fist and twisting to avoid the swords slammed his fist into Abi's side. The teen yelped and tried to dart away but this time Altair was at his throat, his sword moving faster than his and quickly spiraling it out of his hand leaving it to clatter to earth some feet away.

Panting his rose his sword to Abi's throat. "I yield," he said his chin raised. Altair dropped his sword. His body was humming, he felt good like this, amazing actually. When he'd practiced with the cane back in Jerusalem it had felt like something was being returned to him after a long absence. Well here was it returned in full. His muscles burned in an amazing way and he wanted to do more, wanted to keep fighting until he collapsed from exhaustion. He didn't know what he could have been to be like this, to crave these things, the feeling of sword against sword, or the adrenaline of a fight. He didn't care though because he wanted to keep this feeling. He refused to let it go again.

"Is that all?" Altair asked turning to Rauf, his naked practice sword at his side in a firm grip.

Rauf just chuckled. "I see you are skilled, perhaps you would like to try me on?"

"I would indeed," Altair said and the novices were quiet as Rauf hauled himself over the fence.

"I will tell you I am no light weight," Rauf said good naturally. "You won't be able to beat me as you did those novices with those tricks of yours."

"We will see," Altair said and his hand fisted the grip of the sword excitedly though it did not show on his face. He was excited for this, he wanted to see what he could really do against someone with training like it was obvious Rauf had if he was tasked with training the novices. Rauf pulled out his own sword another practice sword, though it was shaped differently than Altair's, it had the slightest curve in it and he knew it was no simple practice sword, this was what eventually the novices would get to train with once they learned to properly wield these regular swords which were bulky in comparison to Rauf's which was sleek and beautiful.

They circled each other, both trying to gauge how the other would fight and who would move first. Rauf had the advantage and they both knew it. He'd seen Altair fight three times where Altair had never seen him fight at all. Rauf knew what sort of moves he would make, Altair didn't. Well, he thought, if he is expecting me to act someway then I must act another.

He stopped circling and lowered his sword to his side. He saw Rauf's brows furrow over his eyes as he stilled. Altair didn't move, he just stood there, waiting. "What is this?" Rauf asked. Altair continued to say nothing. Somehow that actually worked because he saw annoyance in Rauf's eyes. Altair let his eyes drift away and even looked away from him. So that was how it was. Rauf did not like to be ignored and when he watched the instructor from the corner of his eyes he saw a slight tensing of his frame. He was not used to being ignored in this ring and for him to do so pissed him off.

His sword jumped upward to catch the sudden down stroke of Rauf's and he gave a small, feral, grin. Rauf was good, very good, and Altair felt himself blocking more than dodging like he had with Abi, the impact of Rauf's sword on his sending tremors up his arms. He was not just good, he was strong. Unlike the teenagers he was a fully grown man after all and had the experience and the muscle to make Altair's breath become short as they fought blades flashing and crashing against one another.

Rauf pushed him all around the ring though never landed a hit on him and Altair watched his feet as well as his free arm and sword after once Rauf had tried to kick him. He was not above using all the weapons he possessed at his disposal, and neither was Altair. Then finally he saw an opening to shift the fight and with a well placed step had shifted it so that now Rauf had to defend against him. Once Altair was on the offensive he felt his sword slowly gaining speed and he landed a hit on Rauf's flank. The force of it made Rauf trip backwards, away from him to try to recuperate in that second. Altair raced after him and kept up the onslaught, Rauf unable to block every forth stroke or so at this speed and he just kept getting faster. He watched Rauf's eyes widen just before the end and their swords grated together. He saw the way Altair's body tensed and then wheeled backwards when Altair delivered a swift and powerful uppercut to his jaw. He fall against the fence and his sword clattered to the ground, Altair was there with his own sword, not aiming at his throat, but rather his crotch since he knew Rauf would risk his neck to get his sword, but that? Probably not.

"I yield," Rauf said around his panting and Altair lowered his blade as they both caught their breath. "You fight well," he puffed.

"You were a challenge," Altair panted though knew he was lying. Not once had he ever been worried he'd lose to Rauf. Within their first few true seconds of the fight he'd always known who'd be the winner even if he'd been on the defense for the first half. Rauf was good, but Altair was better. It was then that he heard some clapping and when he looked around he saw the novices were clapping, as was Al Mualim. The look in the man's eye made the victory taste suddenly sour. "Thank you," he said and gave the practice sword to a novice who was all too happy to take it and he climbed over the fence.

"No need to look so glum Altair, Rauf is not an easy man to beat. You seemed to know exactly how to make him weak though," Al Mualim said as he approached him. "Congratulations."

"Is that all you required of me?" he asked coldly.

"For now yes. It was a pleasure to see you fight Altair, I hope to see it again. I'm sure you would give many of our brothers a run for their gold," Al Mualim said.

"I do not have a sword even if I wished to fight them," he said.

"If you want one we shall provide."

"I want a sword like Rauf's, only with a true edge," the words came out before he could think of it.

"Perhaps. Such swords are only for those who have proven themselves," Al Mualim said slyly and he was reminded more of a badger than a fox, once it got it's claws into something it did not let go and he could tell that Al Mualim would do whatever he had to to make Altair be one of his 'dogs'.

"I see," Altair said, "Good day Al Mualim," and he left the old man standing there.


	6. Flying Higher than a Bird

Pretty sure this is the most amazing thing I've ever written, ever. Just... I cried I was laughing so hard writing the second half of this chapter.

In which Altair talks himself into a circle.

* * *

><p>He falls into a routine. It's hard not to in this place where everything is routine and everyone has purpose. He wakes up with everyone else if only to get breakfast in the morning. He eats at a different table each day, speaking with whoever he wants and the novices always talk to him with respect. After breakfast is morning prayer but Altair doesn't go to that, he isn't religious, he doesn't even know what to do, doesn't know the prayers. He takes that time to exercise and loosen his limbs in his room instead. After prayer, before it gets too hot outside, the novices are sent to train. The first few days he just watches, fighting Rauf after he's sent the novices inside, after those few days though he isn't allowed to be idle. Rauf is not someone who simply rolls over and lets someone beat him in a sword fight, he's an instructor and knows how to fight as easily as he knows the ninety-nine names of Allah. The fact that Altair can beat him, and beat him consistently quickly draws the interest of the other warriors.<p>

After those first few days after breakfast he fights and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He uses a training sword, one of the bulky ones used by the novices. He doesn't mind if the others use their real weapons, or training swords. To him it doesn't matter, they all eventually end up in the dirt. No one can touch him and he doesn't stop until he can't lift his sword anymore or they go back into the fortress for lunch; whichever comes first, which is usually lunch.

Altair never feels more alive than during those mornings. He talks with whoever wants to talk and gladly shows them his blade work. The more he fights them the better he becomes. There's a way that these men fight that is different to him and he knows it but by the end of the second week he's already adapted and taken on some of their moves simply by watching them fight him, each other, or watching Rauf train the novices. He adds those moves to his own repertoire and becomes even more furious in the fighting ring, mixing his old moves and his new ones that with his speed make him unbeatable.

It doesn't last though. Of course not, because nothing in Altair's life had ever been a constant before being pulled out from under his feet like a rug. He's summoned to Al Mualim, who till now has not spoken to him since he first watched him fight.

The old man ignores him for a few moments as he pens something onto a slip of paper. What it is Altair doesn't know, he doesn't even care. He doesn't like Al Mualim though he has no real reason to. Just something within him is just telling him to trust the man is a bad idea. Finally the old man looks up. "Altair," he says and he doesn't react, he's grown used to the name now, he likes it, "I've heard you're quite a fighter. Even better than the last time I saw you," Altair says nothing. Al Mualim, "You have nothing to say? No gloating?"

"Should I?" he asked quietly, "If you knew me before you should know that I am not him. I am different now."

The old man seems extremely pleased by his words. "Yes, of course, how foolish of me. Of course you are different. Perhaps even a change for the better," he smiles and for the first time Altair doesn't mind, doesn't think he looks like something untrustworthy. "I have been giving your request, for a sword, a great deal of thought. You still want one don't you?"

"Yes," he said not showing any eagerness in his words to be allowed to use a real blade, one with an edge.

"We cannot simply give our such weapons to anyone, you must understand that?" Altair just nodded, he was not so dumb as to think that. "You must prove yourself to us if you want to use our weapons. Become one of us-

"I will not," he said before he could stop himself. Al Mualim blinked at him, surprised by the force of his words. "You want me to be your loyal dog. I am _no ones _dog. I do not play fetch for a master. I am myself and do what helps me, not you."

"Ah, I see," and Al Mualim moved around his desk where there was a strange ball. He hadn't seen that the last time, it was a new acquisition apparently. But where had it come from? "So you won't do as I say even if it in your best interest Altair? You are one of us, even if you do not remember. How else could you be such a skilled swordsman?" as he spoke he picked up the ball and rolled it between his fingers. Altair's eyes were drawn to it for a moment as it caught the light but he looked back at Al Mualim quickly. "You would be a great asset to us once again, if you did as I said."

"You are not my master," Altair said. "If you wish to keep me here so be it, for I'm a guest who isn't allowed to leave, but if you are at least let me live in peace without your agenda to clog my day. I have little patience for these games old man."

"You best watch your tongue boy," Al Mualim snarled at him and abruptly put the ball down, seeming to be more agitated than before.

"Or you shall what?" he challenged. "I am not an Assassin. I am not one of your little hunting hawks, you have no power over me," he said, chin up and defiant.

He saw the old man's jaw clench in anger, "I forgot how stubborn you are Altair. It seems that that part of you will never change," he said seeming to be upset over something beyond Altair's brazen attitude. "Fine then, if you will not become one of us you will still work for us."

Now it was Altair's turn to be surprised, "How?"

"The Brotherhood is not above using people who are not within our sphere of influence to accomplish what we need. Our enemies are aware of what we look like, sometimes we must employ other agents to get close to a target."

And you wish me to become one of those agents?"

"Yes."

"Will I get a sword?"

Al Mualim chuckled, "Yes," he acknowledged.

"Do I have to call you master?"

"No."

"Okay. I will be one of your agents," he said. "What do I have to do?"

Al Mualim seemed pleased by this, "I am glad to hear that Altair. Perhaps in time you'll remember your place in this Brotherhood and will one day call me Master again." Altair gave him a cold look, but said nothing. "You are not though, so you will not have your own missions. You will assist other Assassins on theirs." Altair nodded his understanding. "For now I have nothing for you though, you may go," he finished. Altair nodded again, this is farewell, and left.

As he walked towards the stairs he passed a familiar form, familiar if only because he'd seen it for almost a week in the time it took to get from Jerusalem to Masyaf. Malik however ignored him, as he always did, and swept right past him towards Al Mualim. He smelled like the road and sweat and horses after a long day's ride. Obviously he'd just come back from wherever he'd been. Altair saw fit to ignore him as well and as he walked down the stairs he was met by another who was on their way up.

"Greetings Altair," Kadar said, his usual easy natured self. He hadn't seen Kadar in some time, a week at least, though as an older novice he did try his blade against Altair's at least once. He was no match for him though.

"Hello Kadar," Altair bowed his head sightly. "Where has your brother been?"

"Oh, he has been to Acre," and the name of the city jarred Altair. "Everything all right Altair?" he asked quickly when he saw the look of discomfort on Altair's face.

"Yes. Sorry," he said, he motioned Kadar to walk with him and with a glance back upstairs Kadar followed him. "What was he doing in Acre?"

"He had a hit. I think his name was Garnier? I am not good with those French names," and he shrugged helplessly. Again the name jarred Altair and he stopped walking before they could exit the fortress. The memory of pungent scents came to him, like the smells of the tonics the rafiq had made him take when he was ill. Only they were stronger and there was blood. Blood? Why was their blood? And those voices. So many. They were hurt crying and-

He reached up and rubbed his temple furiously as his head began to ache. "Altair?" Kadar asked worriedly and he shut down the thought process surrounded the name Garnier. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he said lowly and took a bottle from the pocket of a pouch he wore. He uncapped it and took a swig. It tasted terrible, sour and bitter at the same time with a strong hint of some taste he couldn't name. "My head just hurt for a moment, it is passing," he assured him gently seeing the worry on the younger man's face. It wasn't though, his head still pounded but he knew it would pass shortly. This wasn't the first time this had happened and he knew that the medicine did not work instantly. "Was he successful, your brother?"

"Yes, of course. He's a master," Kadar said cheerfully with plenty of enthusiastic pride for his brothers accomplishments as they walked out into the muter sunlight provided by the garden. Here there were several other men, both novices and assassins, relaxing in the shade and he could see smoke rising from some of the small clustered groups.

Kadar tugged him over to one of the groups and he saw where the smoke was coming from. There was an ornate looking jar-like thing between the members who were partaking in it and along woven hose connected to it just below the long graceful neck of the bottle. The hose were being passed around and they were sucking on it before breathing out a great puff of the pale smoke. It smelled herbal and was rather strong, but not unpleasant. Kadar sat without warning next to another novice, in fact they were all novices, and pulled Altair down next to him.

"Hello Altair," the novices said dipping their heads when they sat, they all knew him of course, they'd seen him fight, and while he was not technically their superior they respected his skill with a sword.

"Have you ever smoked hookah?" Kadar asked him and Altair shook his head. He did not even come to the garden much, he preferred to be in the front, finding someone to test his blade against, not as though he didn't have plenty of takers.

"Really?" asked another novice curiously.

"Well, I may have," Altair said.

"He has amnesia," Kadar quickly explained to their confused looks and then they just looked now much more interested.

"You don't remember anything?" one asked nosily.

"But you know to speak."

"And fight-

"Yes fight. How can you have amnesia and fight so well?"

"I think he's lying. He must be lying or-

Altair just rolled his eyes, deciding not to answer them and instead said, "Just because I don't remember doesn't mean I can't teach noisy novices a lesson," and they quieted. "What is hookah?" he asked looking at Kadar to clarify. He was surprised to find that it was a way to smoke, instead of burning rolled sticks of opium or cannabis, both plants that gave the user a euphoric feeling when smoked or eaten. Kadar showed him how to do it and all the novices laughed when he choked on his first breath. After a few tries he got it though and blew a lungful of smoke into their faces making them snicker.

It didn't take him long to start feeling the effects of the drug and soon was laying on some of the pillows around them, half propped up against Kadar as he stared across the garden not really focusing on anything. He saw a few of the women there weaving between the others in the garden, offering more coal or more of the two plants to burn, their soft colored robes rippled in the breeze showing off their perfect and bronzed skin. Some men in white left though none came and his eyes darted away and attempted to focus when someone came near their group. Even in this daze Altair recognized him, it was hard to not recognize such a permanently unhappy face after all and upon seeing Malik Altair couldn't help but start giggling.

Malik gave him an annoyed look, a scowl really, but it only amused Altair and he pressed his face into Kadar's shoulder to smother it his laughter since he had enough sense to realize he was being both an idiot and very rude. "What is wrong with him?" he growled and looked pointedly at Altair.

"He said he never smoked hookah," Kadar said.

"Not that he remembers," another novice provided.

Malik just sent him an unamused look, "Judging by his actions we'll go with never in his life if he is acting like such an idiot."

Altair snorted into Kadar's shoulder, "_Not like you wouldn't do with some relaxing. Stick so far up your ass you could choke on it,_" he giggled.

"What did he just say?"

"I don't know, I don't speak such a tongue."

"Nor I," and the novices looked at Malik for some sort of clarification.

"It was English," Malik said.

"Oh… does anyone speak English?" someone asked and there was a general shaking of heads that to Altair looked like they all suddenly had three faces. His eyes widened at seeing that and reached out to touch Kadar's face to make sure he really didn't.

"_Weird,_" he said at length everyone looking at him.

"Altair," Malik snapped and Altair gave him a dazed look. "Arabic, speak Arabic," he ordered.

"_Make me,_" he half sneered, half grinned. Truthfully he didn't quite understand how he was doing this, his mouth was just moving and the words were coming out.

Malik sighed, "The Master wants to see you."

"_Tell the old man to_ go fuck himself," his words switched half way through the sentence. "He _isn't my master like _you stupid fetch dogs."

Malik groaned, "Kadar, help me. He's in no condition to be in polite company," and he grabbed Altair by the shoulder and hauled him upward. Kadar jumped to his feet. "He has a room right?" he asked.

"Yes," Kadar nodded absently and gave Altair a gentle push forward.

"_Where we going_?" he asked Kadar and leaned on him.

"Altair I don't speak English," Kadar sighed wrapping an arm around Altair's wait to direct him.

"_Really? You should it's very fun. _It makes Malik mad," he added with a look that would have been sly had he not been so high.

"Yes, it does," Malik snapped at him. "Kadar what possessed you?" he demanded as they got him into the fortress.

"I didn't know he'd act like this brother, please don't be angry," he said and his lip wibbled. Altair giggled when he saw Malik totally cave under such a look and no longer seemed angry _at him_ but only at Altair.

"You," Malik informed him as they walked up stairs, staying clear away from Al Mualim, "You should not have smoked so much that you would act like a fool."

"_You already think I am useless, what is it to you Malik?_" and he saw the pissed look come to Malik's face at his English since he couldn't be understood. "Perhaps _you_ should be the one who learns English," he managed to sneer as he spoke Arabic.

"Altair," he growled and grabbed him by the front of the robes.

"Malik," he said with a languid grin spreading across his entire face comically.

"I am forbidding you from smoking again."

"You cannot tell me what to do," he said still amused.

"I can because from now on you are my underling. So you will do as I say," Malik snarled.

Altair just snorted and pushed him off, "Whatever Malik," he said and managed to walk a slightly crooked line before Kadar was by his side, arm steadying him.

"Lets just get him to bed brother, you can argue another time," Kadar said hopefully while Malik fumed. "You need to sleep this off Altair."

"_Whatever you say Kadar._ You're nice so I'll do what you say," he said giving him that same broad, lazy, grin only without the insubordination, "Not like that _stupid_ _brother of yours_," he wasn't quite aware what came out in English and what came out in Arabic anymore as it was getting increasingly hard to tell them apart in this state.

"Altair maybe you better be quiet," Kadar said gently his arm over Altair's shoulders as he glanced over at Malik. Altair didn't need to look to know Malik was pissed. He'd found on their journey to Masyaf that Malik was extremely easy to piss off, especially when it came to Kadar.

"Oh?" and then they stopped in front of a door.

"And here is your room," Kadar said quickly and when Altair glanced over saw that Malik's face was pale with anger.

He just giggled, "You look like one of those crusaders when you're angry Malik," he declared.

"And what would you know what a crusader looked like?" Malik snarled.

"Hmmm," he put a finger to his chin, "_Nothing," _his tone such that there was no trouble to discern what he was saying, he laughed again. He enjoyed this feeling, it made his head light and airy and he never once had thought of anything stressful.

"Exactly, so shut up," Malik snapped and practically kicked open his door.

"So violent Malik. _You should get laid,_" he smirked and while Malik didn't know what he said it was obvious to all parties he didn't like it. Mainly though he disliked not knowing what was being said about him.

"C'mon Altair," and Kadar hauled him quickly into the room and pushed him onto the bed. Altair just smiled dumbly at him. Kadar was such a nice young man, not like Malik. Malik was mean and had that nasty temper. He felt something strange and only after it was done did he realize Kadar had taken his boots off for him for his feet were now touching the floor.

"Kadar," Malik snapped, he was standing in the doorway. "Leave the idiot to come down off the cloud on his own.

"Ah, yes bro_ttther-!_" he ended in only a little yelp when Altair hugged him around the waist. "Altair please let go," he said.

"_Make me_," he purred, his cheek pressed against Kadar's stomach.

"Altair," Kadar groaned before giving a startled cry as Altair's hand inadvertandly ran along his backside. "Altair!" and he was red-faced. Altair couldn't figure out _why_ he was either. To his smoke addled mind he didn't quite get it, though to an unaddled mind he probably wouldn't have either so there wasn't much difference. He didn't have a life time of baggage about sexuality to weight him down on what was and wasn't appropriate. He also would have been mildly surprised he hadn't gotten into trouble over that yet had he been in a sober mind as he had that thought.

"Hey!" he heard Malik yell after he'd done so and his arms draped around Kadar's waist, almost absurdly low on his hips and his face was pressed into the hollow of Kadar's hip where the leg joined the body. "Get off my brother you leech," and he yanked Altair off Kadar and shoved him so that he fell back onto the bed snickering. "Think that's funny."

"_You're funny,_" Altair claimed giggling again mercilessly. "_Jealous Kadar gets all the attention and you don't ole' Malik_?" he snorted and found that so funny that he was soon laughing so hard he was crying.

"Lets go Kadar," Malik spat and grabbed Kadar by the shoulder and shoved him out of the room. "When you remember how to act appropriately go see the Master."

"The old man can suck my cock," Altair called after Malik, still lying on his back, who gave a wordless snarl and he looked up and saw something metal, shiny and pointy sticking out of the wood of the wall. Malik had thrown a knife at him. "And you suck at throwing knives," Altair said and he heard Kadar speaking quickly and the door got closed loudly and he could hear the brothers talking on the other side. Mainly Malik's agitated voice arguing with Kadar's far more reasonable tone before finally they both stopped.

Considering he wasn't dead and it was quiet he figured they'd left. By then his laughter had died out and he reached up and grabbed the knife from the wall where it was stuck. He contemplated it before sitting up and hurled the knife at the door without much thought.

Oh.

Ooooooh.

He could throw knives too?

Sword fight, throw knives and speak two tongues. He was full of surprises wasn't he?

He got up sluggishly and went to the door and grabbed the knife again. He knew he'd probably get yelled at if he left at the moment. Maybe Kadar would yell at him. He didn't Kadar to yell at him, Malik yelled at him enough for the both of them. That would be terrible if such a nice young man had to go around yelling at people. Wasn't he around enough abuse with Malik as a brother? How could such a dick like Malik have such a nice brother? Were they brothers? Maybe they were just Assassin brothers and not really related. Yes that seemed likely. Right? Was that how that worked? He wasn't sure if that was how siblings worked at the moment-

Did he have any siblings? He hoped so. One that was awesome and nice like Kadar, or Rauf, he liked Rauf too. For a man who enjoyed teaching boys how to kill people he was almost _too_ nice. But that was fine. Altair was nice, when he wanted to be at least, and he could kill people. Had he though? He didn't even know that. Man what a terrible swordsman he was if he'd never used his sword to defend himself. What if that was how he'd gotten all missed up in Jerusalem? Shit. Maybe he sucked in a fight. That was a terrible idea!

But he didn't suck in a fight. No one could beat him. No one. Was there someone so much better than him that they could beat him? No one in Masyaf that was for sure and Masyaf had some of the most well trained swordsmen. Right? Was that right? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they were all just really bad and he was only slightly better. That meant he was just only bad and not really bad. So that could be why he got beaten. He was a terrible swordsman. A terrible terrible swordsman.

This epiphany made him depressed and he sat on the bed before falling over sideways ignoring the knife above him that was stuck in the wall again. There were a myriad of other holes in the wall from the knife being thrown at it, all in a tight cluster about two inches in diameter. He was still a terrible swordsman though and that was depressing. He was just going to lay here until he wasn't depressed. He didn't like this feeling. To bad someone wasn't here to entertain him, that would be good, he enjoyed being entertained. But there was no one here, he was all by himself.

Yeah, he really was all alone.

No.

Not going down that road.

That was even more depressing than the fact that he was a terrible swordsman.

Why was he a terrible swordsman again? He couldn't remember. Why would he think that? He beat everyone, no matter what. But what sort of fun was it if you were just the best. Than no one could ever play with you, since you always beat them at everything. Well that wasn't fun _at all_. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe he shouldn't be so good at stuff? But what was he good at? Sword fighting, knife throwing (apparently), and what? Wow that was a pitifully short list. So he was good at a few things. Yes good at a few things, people wouldn't be too disheartened near him if it was just a few things right? Not like he was actually good at _everything_. That was ridiculous. Who was good at everything?

Not him.

Nope.

Definitely not him.

He was just good at two things-

He could speak English too. Right? That _had_ been English. Right? Shit he couldn't remember. What if it was French… or German? Shit he hated Germans.

Wait.

Why did he hate Germans?

He didn't know he just _really_ hated Germans.

Could he speak German? Fuck he hoped not. Germans were dicks, all of them, dicks-

Oh wow that was another thought process he didn't want to go down as he suddenly imagined a lot of dicks all over the ceiling. Making a face he rolled over and squirmed over to his pillow and pressed his face into it.

No.

No dicks.

None.

Do not think about dicks.

And of course all he could do was think about dicks now.

Well that was annoying.

He tried thinking of something else, to distract himself, it worked almost too easily because in about five seconds he'd gone from dicks to wondering why he was so cold. Somehow during this entire thing he'd taken off his shirt. When the hell had that happened? He honestly couldn't remember. Well he was shirtless now, and cold. How was he cold in the middle of a desert! This made no sense! What sort of sorcery was this that he would be cold in a desert? He didn't understand. That shouldn't be permitted.

Grumbling about the injustice of weather and being cold in some tongue, he didn't even know if it was English or Arabic or German or whatever else fucking language he may or may not know, he grabbed the blanket and dragged it over his shoulders. He realized he could have fixed the problem by putting his shirt back on but that seemed like it would take far too much effort and he was content to not move ever again. Yes that sounded wonderful actually. Not move and stay under this blanket forever and-

He yawned. It wasn't time for bed yet though, it was still light out. A nap than perhaps? The idea sounded wonderful. Yes, a nap. However it would take far longer than he anticipated to actually fall asleep in which time he reminded himself he hated Germans and that he was a terrible swordsman at least three times.


End file.
